Monday, June 30, 2014

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

The windowbeam always hits the wall my feet point to. I say the serenity prayer and I wipe my face with a Grace Towel every morning. When I'm sitting in a school desk my hair is dripping long down my arms all the way to the ends of my fingertips. Water drops off each enamel nail wet and pale. Diane is in the desk to my right wearing all black, her glasses on a string around her neck. Ms. Mowat the teacher has put her forehead down on the podium and is taking deep breaths now. She got engaged this week and tugs at her skirt a lot. I keep getting this feeling like everyone is the same age. Like the universe has reduced us all to 12 years old and that's how it's going to be from now on. The cottonwood trees started sending their white puffs into the air all over town, it is thick with them like a hot snow globe. When I'm running in my running clothes the cotton wisps move around me like how matter would look at the molecular level if we could see it. Being displaced by my body mass. There is a man handing out bibles and gatorade on the sidewalk next to the lake, the wisps pool and swirl around the legs of his plastic folding table. That looks so pretty and seasonal.

I lost my Saturday blue week 3 pill on the groundeyewashplaying with dead thingscream leggingswith a mint"go around bitch"boulder trail5 great smilesor stylesthis girl with the pretzels she eats one square at time butter pretzels zip locking the bag after each square chewing slow and unziplocking for another butter and then ziplocking again crunch then mushif i even began to look her wayher eyes beat me to iteven if i looked at her reflection in the windowshe already knewzip lock zip lock square butteron the 4 with all big to medium sized menfrowningwho didn't care about halloweenat allthis is my favorite holidayi spent the night on trains like a songangry with the cityflavored glovesi am in love with time in this way that i fantasize about chronologythere isn't enough light around herepeople are trying to do thingsit is not the mountainsit is the gray area where snow is the worstin the city the heat and the crowdstake care of all that andint the mountainsthere is no care to takehere its dark and cold and we shovelbecause people have graythings to doflashlight friendscatcall bananathis is the creepy faceparanoid about the different temperaturesof my different body partsas i drive the burning oilsmelling mountain valleythe glass house with the good stuff in thepacific palisadesit is like aladin or justthe 20th century on the coastlos ángeles it is likethe glass house is justcontainers stackedhow the grass is colder than you arelike summer nights back eastfire flies